Shadow River

by Ralph Cotton

  Sam sipped his coffee and took a deep breath.

  “What is the big job?” he asked.

  “He never said,” Burke replied. “But if it’s in Agua Fría, there’s nothing worth robbing there except Banco Nacional.”

  “Banco Nacional de Méjico,” Montana said. He gave a short grin. “I knew somebody would rob it someday. I never thought I’d be a part of it.”

  Sam, watching and listening, realized that robbing the bank would draw federales on the outlaws’ trail immediately. He needed a way to keep himself in the game without appearing too humiliated by being the relay man for fresh horses.

  “In that case, my job providing horses is a whole bigger thing than it sounded like at first,” he said.

  The two snapped their eyes to him.

  “You mean you’re all right with doing it?” Montana asked, sounding surprised.

  Burke looked almost disappointed.

  “Don’t do it, Jones,” he said. “Leave this one alone. Meet us later on, like I just said. I’ll even share a piece of my cut with you.”

  Montana looked stunned at hearing Burke offer a part of his share of the robbery.

  “Man! You really did fall on your head last night,” he said.

  “I’m just trying to do what I figure is right for all of us,” he said. He looked at Sam. “You’re not going to take the lowest rung on the ladder and work for chicken feed. Ain’t I right?”

  “Huh-uh, you’re wrong, Clyde. I’ll do it—but just this once,” Sam said, turning down Burke’s offer for part of his cut. He gave a shrug. “We’ve got to look at it from Madson’s point, a big job, he’s never ridden with me. Who says he’s supposed to trust me right from the get-go?”

  “But we both vouched for you,” Montana said.

  “Obliged,” Sam said, “but maybe you shouldn’t have.” He stood and slung the grounds from his empty cup.

  “That’s a hell of a thing to say,” Montana replied. “We faced bears, soldiers, Apache, earthquakes and landslides—”

  “And Bell Madson knows none of that,” Sam said, cutting Montana short. “Let’s not start all over on this,” he said. He looked at Burke. He had to ask himself why Burke would offer a part of his cut for him to ride away now and meet up after the robbery. He didn’t like the only answer he could come up with. “Madson wants a horseman, I’m his man,” Sam added. “How many horses and where does he want them?”

  “There’s a man named Ace Turpin runs a horse spread near Fuego Pequeño—we’ll go there with you, then split up,” Burke said. He drew a small pouch of gold coins from inside his shirt and pitched it to Sam. “He’ll have seven horses strung and waiting,” he added, his hangover seeming to be under better control. “Take them just off the trail below Mesa Rocoso, twenty miles from Agua Fría. There’s a cave there at the base of the mesa. Be waiting for us, ready to switch horses.”

  Having caught the pouch of coins, Sam hefted it on his palm. They felt light, different; they made a dull sound.

  “Anything else?” he asked. As he inquired, he opened the drawstring on the pouch.

  “One thing,” said Burke, “because of the size of this job, you need to kill Turpin. Madson wants nobody alive who might have his name on their tongue.”

  Sam shook the contents of the pouch out onto his palm and saw it wasn’t gold at all, only iron screw washers.

  “I told him you’d have no qualms doing that,” Burke said.

  Sam just looked at him, scooping the washers back into the pouch.

  “Madson said the only men he’s known of you killing is outlaws, Raymond Segert and his own men,” Burke continued. “Said killing Turpin would say something for you, gain his trust, so to speak.”

  “Save your breath, Clyde. I understand,” Sam said quietly. “I’ll do it.” He drew the string on the pouch and put it away inside his shirt.

  “You will?” Burke looked surprised.

  The three stood and dusted the seats of their trousers. Burke finished the whiskey-laced coffee in a gulp while Sam and Montana put out the fire with their boots.

  “What’d I say?” said Sam. He started toward the horses. “How far to Fuego Pequeño?”

  “Three days on the sand flats,” said Montana. “More on the hill trails.”

  “Let’s pull up and get riding, then,” Sam said. “I’ve got relay horses to gather.”

  • • •

  Fuego Pequeño (Little Fire)

  Three days later

  At seventy-five feet, Sam, Burke and the Montana Kid spread out abreast facing the adobe and weathered plank shack standing at the end of a sandy narrow path. The trail wound through a sand lot strewn with pale clump grass, prickly pear, cholla and nopal cactus, all of it presided over by a small herd of lank and wandering Mexican cattle. Beside the shack stood a corral; inside stood a string of horses tied to the gatepost. At the gate stood a man holding a shotgun, a black beard hanging on to his chest. He straightened at the sight of the three riders.

  “We’ll ride on in with you, Jones,” Burke offered.

  “Why?” Sam fired back sharply. “Do I look like a newcomer at this?”

  “No,” said Burke. “I was just offering. Looks like Ace Turpin is sporting a shotgun.” Instead of nudging his horse forward as he’d planned, he drew up and sat staring straight ahead.

  “Means nothing to me,” Sam said, keeping his voice hard. “You can wait here and still see all you want to see.” He put his dun forward at a walk. Montana moved his horse over beside Burke, leading the white barb supply horse beside him. The two sat watching.

  “How many times you say Jones’ll shoot him?” Montana said, staring straight ahead, squinting against the sun’s glare.

  Burke considered it.

  “Three times at least,” he said. “I figure he won’t take a chance with that shotgun staring at him.”

  “Huh-uh, one shot is all, I figure,” said Montana. He raised his voice for Sam to hear. “I’ve come to know Jones as a fragile sort. He’d not waste three bullets when one will do the job, shotgun or no.”

  Sam looked back over his shoulder and rode on. He wasn’t going to kill this Ace Turpin. He’d already decided that much, he reminded himself. His plan was to lure Turpin out of sight, knock him in the head, fire a shot in the ground and get the horses out of there before the man regained consciousness.

  Simple enough, he told himself. Yet he began seeing a snag in his plan as soon as he got within twenty feet of the man and recognized the moon face hidden beneath the long black beard. He didn’t recognize him by the name of Ace Turpin. He knew the man as Henry Tabbs, a man he had escorted to Yuma Prison a year ago. As soon as the bearded face looked familiar to him, he ducked the brim of his sombrero enough to keep his face partly hidden.

  “Are you Madson’s horse man?” the bearded man asked. He held the shotgun in a way that it could be easily raised and fired at a split second’s notice.

  “I am,” Sam said. Keeping his sombrero brim low, he swung down from the saddle and walked forward. This didn’t change anything, he told himself. He only had to keep his face shielded a little in the black shade of his sombrero and go on with his plan. “I see you’ve got the horses ready and waiting,” he added, walking along the corral fence, checking the animals as he went.

  “I don’t fool around,” the man said with a straight harsh grin that showed Sam a familiar gap left by a missing front tooth.

  Yep, Henry Tabb. . . . Sam walked back, stepped inside the corral gate and continued looking the horses over. They were fine, strong animals, no question about it. He raised a hoof on a silver-gray, checked it, set it down—lifted the lip on a big roan, checked the wear on its teeth, then rubbed its muzzle and went on.

  “What’s your name, mister?” Henry Tabbs asked, following along beside him.

  “No offense,” Sam said q
uietly. “I don’t use one on a deal like this.” He reached inside his shirt, pulled out the pouch of phony coins and held it up for the man to see. “Here’s all you’ll need to know. I’m the man who brought you this gold.”

  Henry Tabbs, aka Ace Turpin, grinned again.

  “At least we’re speaking the same language, amigo,” he said. He started to reach for the coin pouch, but Sam expertly moved it away from him and kept it close to his chest as he stepped away, inspecting the horses some more.

  The bearded man stood watch, giving Sam a curious look as if pondering something familiar about him. The sound of his voice? He wasn’t sure.

  “Have I seen you before?” he asked.

  “Not that I can recall,” Sam said. He turned back to the man, needing to get this done before Tabbs’ memory caught up to him. Gesturing a nod toward the rear of the shack, he said, “Let’s get in some shade while you count this.” He held the pouch back up for the man to see.

  “Sounds good to me,” said Tabbs. He turned around to walk, but only took a step before he stopped and froze. “Damn it, I know you!” he said, already turning back to Sam, the shotgun coming up into play. Sam heard it cock. “You’re that damn Ranger from Nogales!”

  This changed everything. Sam’s Colt was up and cocked. It caught Tabbs as he turned. Sam’s bullet nailed the man dead center in his forehead and sent him spilling backward onto the dirt. A bloody mist settled on him. The string of horses stirred, wanting to bolt, but only for a second. Sam stepped over to them, his Colt smoking in his hand. He rubbed the first horse’s muzzle, patted down its withers. He settled the skittish animal and, with it, the rest of the string.

  This wasn’t what he’d wanted at all, he thought, looking over at Henry Tabbs. But this was how the hand had played itself out. He couldn’t let the man turn and kill him. No, sir. . . .

  Seeing Sam shoot the bearded man, Burke and Montana rode forward quickly and slid their horses to a halt outside the corral. They stretched up in their stirrups and looked over the corral fence at the body lying dead in the dirt. Sam walked out of the corral, replacing his spent cartridge and slipping the bone-handled Colt into its holster.

  “You were right, Jones,” Burke said. “You’re no newcomer. We both saw you kill him faster than a cat can scratch its behind.”

  “Is that what you’ll tell Madson?” Sam said stiffly. He stepped up atop the dun and turned it to the corral gate.

  Montana and Burke—neither one answered. They watched as Sam stepped the dun inside the corral, untied the string and led the horses out. He stopped in front of the two gunmen.

  Montana stepped his horse and the barb forward.

  “You’ll be needing these supplies more than we will,” he said. He handed Sam the barb’s lead rope. Sam held it with the other lead rope.

  “Obliged,” said Sam. He sat gazing coolly at Burke, seeing the same troubled look in his eyes he’d seen ever since Burke had returned mindless and drunk from Shadow River. Burke was sober three days now—still the look was there, Sam noted. “Anything we need to talk about before we split up?” he asked Burke.

  Burke returned his gaze, keeping himself steady, not revealing a thing.

  “No. We’ve done all the talking we need to,” he said with a note of resolve in his voice. “We’ll be seeing you at Mesa Rocoso.”

  “Then Rocky Mesa it is,” Sam said, translating the name. He touched the brim of his sombrero toward Burke, then toward the Montana Kid.

  As he nudged his dun forward, leading the barb and the seven-horse relay string, Montana called out, “Jones,” getting his attention.

  Sam looked around.

  “I won a five-dollar piece on you,” Montana said.

  “Yeah, how’s that?” Sam said.

  “I bet Clyde here you’d kill Ace Turpin with one shot.” He chuckled. “Ain’t that a hoot?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said, pushing forward, “that’s a hoot sure enough.”

  Chapter 19

  Mesa Rocoso

  Mexican Desert badlands

  Leading seven fresh horses and the white-speckled barb, Sam approached the wide mesa on a narrow meandering trail that bore no sign of recent hoof prints. In their place, looking down, he saw a laden bed of coyote tracks trafficking back and forth and straying out into the rock across the mesa’s rocky sloping base. When he spotted a black hole on a high wall above him, he rode upward toward it with his rifle lying ready across his lap.

  In moments he led the horses onto a flat clearing that appeared to have been leveled and laid out just for this purpose—to shelter and hide him and the horse string, and to offer a long wide view of the desert floor below. As he surveyed the mesa and the terrain surrounding it, he searched any path or trail leading up off the desert floor, knowing that horses drew Apache as a magnet draws iron shavings.

  This will do, he told himself, gazing off in the direction of Agua Fría. Sometime tomorrow Madson and his men would arrive hell-bent along the main trail below. He would see their dust for miles. He would hear their gunshots if any federales had gotten close enough on their trail when they’d ridden away carrying sacks of Mexican gold.

  But all of that remained to be seen, he told himself, nudging the dun forward toward the black cave entrance, leading the horse string and the supply barb behind him. What he did not want to do was get himself caught or killed by federales in his attempt at supplying fresh horses to a gang of bank robbers. Working undercover or not, that would be a hard situation for Ranger Captain Morgan Yates back in Nogales to explain to the U.S. consulate in Matamoros.

  He had taken his participation in this as far as he could. Stepping any further would be crossing some serious legal lines. There was no question he wanted Madson dead. Just as badly, he wanted Jon Ho dead, and this gang of thieves and gunmen broken up. But it had to be done coolly and it had to be done right, he reminded himself, stopping the horse out in front of the cave entrance and looking back on the lower trail behind him, seeing the hoofprints of his horses leading down the slope toward the desert floor.

  So get started, he said to himself.

  Swinging down from his saddle, he led the horses to a standing spur of rock, tied one end of the string there, spread the horses out and tied the other end around a waist-high rock near the cave entrance. He took a small lantern from the supplies atop the barb and carried it with him inside the cave.

  Once inside the narrow black opening, he stopped long enough to light the lantern with a sulfur match and hold it up, revealing a wide floor in a clearing a few feet in front of him. Somewhere in there among the cavern’s rocky perimeter, the warning rattle of a snake rose and fell as the lantern light probed into its domain.

  “Easy, big boy, I’m not here to eat you,” Sam whispered to the snake.

  Rifle in hand, he walked forward in time to see the snake slide silently out of sight farther back into the rocky interior. In the loose fine dust on the cavern floor, he saw more coyote prints everywhere. Across the floor, he saw half of a human skeleton still partly clothed in thin crumbling rags. A few feet away, he saw a loose leg bone. A few feet farther on, a battered miner’s boot lay on its side. Sam saw a lizard dart into it. He stood for a moment longer, then turned and walked back out into the afternoon light.

  He took his battered telescope from the supplies atop the barb and walked to a rock that stood as high as his chest. He stretched the telescope out and rested on his elbows, scanning the desert floor as far out as the afternoon sunlight would allow. Nothing, he told himself. He scanned closer, clearly seeing the hoofprints his horses had left along the edge of the sand flats to the unwinding mesa trail. He looked left and right for any sign of rising trail dust, but he saw none. Letting out a breath, he laid the telescope down atop the rock for later, then turned and walked back to the horses.

  From atop the supply horse, he took down some kindling he’d gathe
red on his way to Rocky Mesa. He laid out the kindling for a firebed and gathered dried scrub branches and piled them atop it. Searching all around the sloping terrain, he found a downed, weathered pine and dragged its brittle carcass back and broke it up as much as he could and banked it atop the brush and kindling.

  He walked back to the rock and picked up the telescope and looked out again. The depth of vision had grown clearer with the lowering of the afternoon sun, yet the lower edges of the distant hill line still wavered and hid in the dissipating veil of heat. He scanned in every direction, the same as he had earlier.

  Still nothing. He closed the telescope and carried it under his arm. He looked at the horses, then at the fire waiting to be lit, then at the long afternoon shadows stretching out from Rocky Mesa onto the desert floor.

  “Time for some coffee,” he said aloud to himself, “maybe a little goat meat.”

  Turning to the waiting fire site, he lit the kindling deep under the brush and downfall pine and let the fire feed and grow. He put a small pot of coffee on to boil and stood a stick of impaled goat meat to sizzle in the flames. While he waited for his evening meal, he walked to the horses, took a few meager supplies from atop the barb and filled his saddlebags behind the dun’s saddle.

  Early darkness began turning purple as the coffee boiled and the jerked goat meat sizzled on the stick. After he’d finished his food and coffee, he lit a small lantern he’d taken from his supplies and carried it inside the cave. He set the glowing candle to one rocky side of the clearing and walked back out.

  Out front he looked at the black cave entrance, seeing the glow of light begging to be investigated. Then he walked to the fire and piled on thick layers of loose brush he’d gathered. He watched the dried tinder flare and crackle and send sparks spiraling and racing skyward on the growing darkness. Beneath his feet came the familiar rumbling deep in the earth. He steadied himself in place, took a breath and looked out onto the darkening desert floor below.